


Second Fiddle

by recrudescence



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/F, Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 14:50:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cuddy gets even and Cameron gets laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Fiddle

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I pounded out this morning when I got a sudden urge to write a vindictively dominant Cuddy.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |    
[cameron/cuddy](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/tag/cameron/cuddy), [housefic](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/tag/housefic)  
  
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Cuddy doesn't usually do this sort of thing. Normally, she's all about solving problems efficiently and proactively, gliding through all the right hoops for a dignified finish. Something like this is wildly out of character for her, and Cameron is a good ten years younger, at least, and it isn't exactly comforting—putting it euphemistically—to recall that she recently made a run at House, who's even older. It just makes her wonder what sort of logic Cameron sees in that. Not that she's about to accuse Cameron of being logical any time soon.

Maybe it's a midlife crisis, the whole biological clock thing ticking with proverbial zeal, never mind that she isn't middle aged, not yet, but picking up a much younger sexual partner of the same sex who also happens to be a co-worker is one of those actions that abso-fucking-lutely _bullhorns_ over any words she can possibly garner.

It started out blandly, two doctors going home at the same time and crossing paths on their way to the carport. Greetings and bromides exchanged, just as blandly, then, from Cuddy: "I was going to get some dinner. I don't feel like making something at home," not expecting a reply, not even slowing her pace.

Unanticipated, a "Me, too," from Cameron, quick little flash of brave eyes darting upward, pure. And they had gone together. Cameron's been getting in a lot of practice at dining with her superiors. The businesswoman in Cuddy sardonically wonders if she should have the girl fill out evaluation sheets.

This time around, Cameron isn't the one in charge. She might regulate her own romantic tendencies, but Cuddy regulates the hospital and everything in it, and if this method is what it takes to put one death-defyingly oblivious optimist in her place, so be it. Good intentions can be the most dangerous kind.

Cameron doesn't usually wear much makeup, and she rains kisses on Cuddy's neck and shoulders, leaving behind bland frosty smears of all-purpose lipstick that probably came as samples in the mail from Maybelline; the tastefully applied eyeliner is smudged towards her temples, liberally mixed with sweat and Cuddy's thumbprints. She doesn't need it, she's all clear skin and clear eyes and somehow girlish even now, making Cuddy's sensibilities pulsate with the daintiest twinge of hesitancy, but it isn't like Cameron's got no idea what's happening or is even saying no.

Cameron, if viewed objectively, seems pretty fucking happy with the situation. All that long hair forgotten in a tangled tail against the pillow, a few stray strands slickly sticking to sweat-soaked skin. Lips bright and bitten, no way of knowing by whom, eyes dark and glittering, and if this actually was a midlife crisis it'd be a pleasant alternative to actuality. She can dream, but why bother? Cameron can dream enough for both of them. Right now, for once, her dreams seem simple enough, all debouching into one tense, messy tangle of want. And as everyone at work now knows, Cameron isn't afraid to go after what she wants. Even if it's only her second choice.

Cuddy is second fiddle to no one.

"Lisa," she'd been urging before, sounding almost cheeky. She hadn't thought Cameron could do cheeky. She isn't about to put anything past her now.

No cheekiness anymore; _hell_, yes. Cameron is fucking _frustrated_, and Cuddy would be lying if she said that alone wasn't getting her off. Because she can, she bites, and Cameron twitches and whines, needful, unable to gain any leverage. Good for her, make her feel a taste of the constriction she unknowingly threw over everyone she works with. Cuddy is the reigning authority in her own little world, and no one fucks that up with impunity

But if this is payback, if this is unreasonable and unethical, it's also fun. She smiles against one sleek, swooping collarbone, using her weight to keep Cameron pinned in place. Swipes fingernails up one thigh, flicks her tongue against a nipple, gets a _moan_ in return. God, yeah, this is fun.

When she slides in a finger, it's slower than she has to, but it's better that way, feeling Cameron stiffen beneath her and then relax with a shaky exhalation. Dips her head, laps at the base of that finger before lazily moving up in a warm, slow line and pushing in a second.

Lets her thumb take over for her tongue and shifts up to slide it against Cameron's, licking into her mouth and not caring whether the girl has any reservations about tasting herself. Cameron's not complaining—hell, she's not even forming words—and when Cuddy presses with the very tip of her thumb, moves it as fast as she can without using her thumbnail, that's apparently the most significant thing on her mind. Mouth going open-closed, open-closed like a goldfish, hands clenching and clawing the pillow so hard Cuddy half-expects the room to fill with shredded cloth and scattered feathers. "Liiisaa," Cameron finally manages, voice going all shaky on the vowels, "I ne—" quick gasp, involuntary jerk of the hips, as Cuddy simultaneously adds another finger and pushes down _hard_ with her thumb, "I…_ah_," arching and hissing as Cuddy changes her pace, moving more roughly now, but still apparently not enough, "…I need _more_."

It isn't exactly a secret that House's one-woman fan club is into men; Cuddy knows it very well. If Cameron's after cock, she'll give her cock. Maybe. She pauses, and Cameron doesn't like that, making a strangled keening sound to emphasize the fact. She moves to withdraw and cross the room—already planning to take her time—but no, Cameron doesn't like that either and winces in protest. Cuddy lets her face assume one of its harsher expressions, leans in so their faces are practically touching and her lower lip brushes a bead of sweat on Cameron's flushed cheek. "How much more do you want?" she demands, voice pitched low. Curiously, she teases with a fourth finger between damp thighs and Cameron gives a full-body shudder and spreads her legs wider.

"_All of it_."

Cuddy's brain blanks for a second, then squeezes out two concise but appropriate thoughts: _You would_ and _Fucking hell_. She's still the one in control, though, and her mouth stretches into a wide, humorless grin; with her free hand she smoothes her hair—still neatly pinned back and out of the way, and she'd be lying, too, if she said Cameron's comparative disarray wasn't feeding her ego—and then lightly glides a fingertip over Cameron's stomach. She hasn't expected this and contemplates for a moment whether it would do more damage to actually give it to her or slowly make her way to the bureau and back first.

It's pretty clear which end of the spectrum the bulk of Cameron's predilections fall on, because nothing screams "fuck me!" like an enormous cane or an enormous tumor (well-meaning Wilson talks too much for his own good), and Cuddy doesn't think a little petty indignation is amiss, just this once. Cameron is pink-tinged and trembling under her eyes and hands, and if her tendencies fall mainly with men it's gratifyingly impossible to tell. Cuddy is used to being the top of the food chain in her own organized world, sloppy second to nothing. At the same time, she's used to being in the minority both sexually and professionally; she's used to having to fight to prove herself. But once she has what she's after, the exultation is always so good and so rife with _triumph_, she's never let it go. She moves.

Cameron squeaks, then, actually squeaks, and in any other situation Cuddy would probably have smiled or arched an eyebrow. Now, she just lets her forehead fall against Cameron's neck and unconsciously murmurs _fuck_ into the sweat-slick skin. When she regains her composure, she licks along that skin, worries it with teeth and tongue until the side of Cameron's neck is marred by the mark. Cameron is surprisingly quiet, uttering only a steady stream of vibrato-laden breaths, eyes closed and mouth open, eyelids tensely trembling, lashes dancing darkly against her cheek for a millisecond at a time. Cuddy's scrabbling at Cameron's other shoulder—tamely, compared to the way Cameron's palms and nails are swarming over her back—and she has enough clarity of mind to realize that everything that's been bothering her is begging to be given a voice and now's as good a time as any. And in that moment it doesn't matter to Cuddy what she wants because she's buried up to the wrist between those narrow hips and growling some of the foulest words she's ever uttered.

Cuddy's been steeped in masculinity for as long as she can remember; she can navigate a sea of testosterone in her sleep. It's been advantageous when it could have been devastating; she's never buckled, letting it teach her how to curse like a sailor and see her weakness for fashion as a game piece instead of an invitation or a frivolity. The irony of coping. She's been through it all. Fucking one little immunologist is a walk in the fucking park.

She's got a bitter little soliloquy running through her head on a loop, crass and crude and poorly articulated because she's pounded it into insensibility with the weight of her thoughts. Right now, for once, she can put those aside, let actions take over, and fuck dizzy little Cameron so hard she'll feel it with every step when she goes back to work. Every time she sits down to diligently take care of House's paperwork, every time she crosses her legs, every time she just fucking _stands_. And Cameron, being Cameron, will shift and blush and try to hide it, but nothing like that escapes House, and he'll have a humiliating tirade just for the occasion, just like always, because Cameron never had a chance anyway and Cameron herself was the only one who didn't know it. Afterward, her discomfort will have increased tenfold and she won't be able to look at House without wanting to die of embarrassment, won't even be able to _think_ of trying another trick like that without considering possibilities outside the healing power of sympathy, won't be able to think of House at all in any terms other than those laid down by the hospital without wanting to die of embarrassment all over again. _And she deserves it_.

She's wrenching wails out of that normally subdued throat and it's exactly what she was after. Draws back, slows her pace, closes her teeth on a patch of sensitive stomach and sucks until there's a mark that'll be around for days. Cameron is protesting again, as much as anyone can when they're too choked with estrogen to grasp the concept of actual language; Cuddy thinks she can make out a _harder_ somewhere in there. If Cameron keeps up the begging, maybe she'll give her what she wants, but not yet. She's not about to readily dole out rewards yet, and that's Cameron's own fault. Dragging House into her stupid scenario with her inane schoolgirl obsession, and what was there for any sensible paragon of female authoritativeness to do but smile and wait for it to pass (albeit already knowing how it would end, same as the rest of the ensemble)? No, Cuddy isn't ready for mercy yet.

It came to a head with Wilson, as good-intentioned as Cameron only without the obliviousness, coming into her office, mouth open just a fraction, filled with a finely aged cocktail of anxiety and unanswered questions. That had only fed her ire, the realization that Cameron was forcing it all to the forefront without any consideration. As it turned out, he was the only one smart or brave or desperate enough to match Cameron's wanting with a warning. Hurling out a little awkward cautioning, and then having to sit back in the balcony while some naïve newcomer took his friend by the hand and led him through a scene straight out of a Lifetime movie. Cuddy can sympathize with that, and she had. "Did you say anything to him?" he'd asked, and she'd been able to tell he had already considered all the possible outcomes, all House's potential reactions, and planned a dozen of his own in response.

"I told him to wear the blue shirt," calm and professional, quick significant glance, quick slice of a smile, quick soft touch on the shoulder, mentally swearing to kill Cameron or at least reprimand her. It's one thing to be that bright-eyed, with the mentality that anything can be healed with a little affection and compassion. Thinking that of House, of all people, is only a disservice, and she resents that Cameron honestly seemed to think it would be that easy, that she never considered any dynamics other than the ones fed by her own determination.

She's a doctor, not a babysitter. She shouldn't have had to reassure him, shouldn't feel angry at House for agreeing to Cameron's condition, shouldn't feel angry at Wilson for being protective of House; what made the most sense was to feel angry with Cameron for initiating everything. Most of all, Cuddy resents the fact that she threw off the order of things, threw off the rules to make her own, threw off her whole goddamn fucking _job_ before picking it up like a wrinkled lab coat, brushing it off, and stepping back into it with an "oh, but only if I can clean up _my_ way" even though she'd been the one making the mess from the very beginning. Well-meaning to the point of saccharine poisoning, fractured Pollyanna, and self-appointed savior. Not the best traits in a doctor.

"_You have no idea what you're doing_," she snarls, and she gives Cameron what she wants.

Cameron's breath catches and her whole body heaves in something like a sob. And that, right there, is triumph. Cuddy is a mess by now, all sticky skin and loosened hair, but one corner of her mouth is jerking slightly in satisfaction.

Afterward, maybe Cameron will cry and admit she was wrong.

Maybe she'll ask to stay the night.

Maybe she'll just gather her things and refuse to be goaded into guiltiness.

Cuddy sits back on her heels, her face a mask of dignity, and she licks her lips and waits.


End file.
